


I'll be running home, back to you

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Dreams, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jeremy starts having dreams about James...





	I'll be running home, back to you

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 20th October 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other. it's been edited for punctuation errors but nothing else.
> 
> set vaguely around season 10.

_“Jeremy,” James says, placing his hands on either side of Jeremy’s shoulders and walking him backwards purposefully, “don’t fight this.”_

_Jeremy is panicking, and he pushes James’ hands off him and takes a step forward. Usually this is enough to make James back down, what with James’ bizarre abhorrence of physical contact; not in this case, though. Instead he steps closer, looking up at Jeremy with an odd, dangerous expression in his eyes._

_“You’ve wanted this since we met. I could tell,” James purrs, and it’s so out of character Jeremy takes a step back, feeling the wall meet him._

_“James, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, but James is leaning in now, and their lips touch, and oh, christ—_

***

Jeremy wakes, sitting bolt upright in his bed, panting, his heart rate through the roof. He scans the room desperately, but it’s just his bedroom in his flat, same as it’s always been. There’s no James, and there’s certainly no homosexualist kissing. He flops back down with a groan, sinking back into the mattress. What the hell was _that?_

Alright, so he hasn’t been with a woman in a while. More than a while, actually. He’s lost track. But that doesn’t justify having odd gay dreams—odd gay dreams about one of your best mates, nonetheless. Who, in said dreams, is being aggressive and pushy, and totally unlike how he is in real life.

It’s not _right_ , he sternly tells his subconscious, rolling over onto his side to stare at his alarm clock, blinking away in the night. Definitely not right.

***

"Hello, Jeremy," James says, looking up from the kettle as Jeremy steps into the portakabin.

Jeremy flinches. He can't help it—images from his dream last night are running through his head. James, heavy-lidded and confident, gaze dark and dangerous. The way his hands felt, so warm on his shoulders—

"James," he booms, deciding to go on the offense. "Is that a dead dog on your head, or—oh, no, it's just your hair."

Richard laughs, over by the window, tea already in hand. "He does look particularly spaniel-like today."

"Bit early for you to be a pillock, isn't it, Clarkson?" James replies evenly, pouring the hot water into his cup.

"Mate, you've been doing this long enough to realise that it's never too early—or too late, in fact—for Jeremy to be a monumental prat," Richard snorts, moving to sit down on the sofa.

Jeremy ignores the both of them and shoulders past James to get to the coffee machine. The first studio day of a new series always makes them a little tense; they tend to bicker more, spark off each other more. It looks great on camera but more often than not results in shouting matches behind the scenes; something about that first day in front of an audience has an effect on the atmosphere.

The coffee machine, however, looks like it's going to receive the brunt of the first shouts of the day. Jeremy slams his fist down on it irritably, watching as it continues to beep annoyingly, refusing to make him coffee.

"Why won't you work?" he growls at it. It's too bloody early for any of this, and he needs his coffee to function.

"I don't know, Jeremy, maybe because it's not on the right setting," James says, sidling up beside him and flicking a switch on the side of the machine. "There."

All of a sudden he's aware of just how close James is, and he can feel the heat from him through his clothes. He takes a minute step to the right and clears his throat awkwardly, unsure of why, suddenly, he can't stand to be close to James. He hates this itchy feeling under his skin, but all the same, he can't help but breathe a sigh of relief as he steps away, the feeling lessening a little.

"Thanks," he mutters, snatching the mug from the machine the moment it's full.

James gives him an odd look, but doesn't press it, and as Jeremy goes over to sit on the sofa and argue with Richard over American muscle cars—the little pikey gets so agitated, it's amusing to watch—he feels his shoulders slump, relaxing.

It was just a dream, he tells himself. Just a stupid dream. Nothing to get worked up about.

***

Jeremy manages to make it through filming without appearing odd on camera—it helps that he sits across from the other two when they do the news. He doesn’t know how he would fare if he had to sit so close to James and feel that itchy feeling again. He even survives through the usual post-show celebratory drinks at the pub; he quickly slides into the booth next to Hammond, leaving a slightly bemused James to take the seat opposite. Once, when their feet accidentally touch under the table, Jeremy feels a chill run up his spine, and has to shake himself. For Christ’s sake, it’s _James_ , the same James that he’s known for years and years.

He stumbles into the flat and collapses into bed, feeling tiredness worm its way through his bones, and blinks at the ceiling, his stomach churning probably from all the beer he’s drunk. He needs to get a grip on himself, or else he’ll ruin the whole damn series, put his big foot in his mouth and say something he shouldn’t. It was one stupid, silly dream, and he needs to grow up and get over it.

He closes his eyes and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

“James. Richard,” Jeremy croaks as he stumbles into the portakabin, shrugging off his jacket and making a beeline for the coffee machine.

“I think you’ll find it’s just me, Jeremy,” James calls from the sofa, and Jeremy blinks, scanning the portakabin: sure enough, Richard isn’t here yet.

He ignores the way that thought makes his heart race and grabs the coffee, taking it over to the sofa and flopping down dramatically, trying to make sure he doesn’t sit too close to James.

He hasn’t had any more dreams since that night, and he’s grateful for that.

“David Tennant’s here today,” James says, breaking the silence and nodding towards the track. “He’s out there now. Doing quite well, actually.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow, peering out the window to see if he can see the Lacetti. “I never really realised how much he looks like a taller, more attractive, more Scottish version of Richard.”

“ _More_ attractive?” James smirks, head tilted to the side as he studies Jeremy. “I didn’t realise you swung that way.”

 _Fuck_. “I—I don’t—James,” he splutters desperately. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I was simply speaking on behalf of all the housewives of Britain.”

Something changes in James’ face at that, a shutter comes down over his eyes, and he turns back to pick at a thread on the sofa. “Yes, Clarkson. No one could ever think that you were gay,” James replies, a note of bitterness in his voice.

Jeremy leaves the portakabin more confused than ever.

***

 _They’re halfway through watching_ Battle of Britain _on the sofa in James’ house when James turns to him and blinks owlishly, shifting slightly closer._

_“James?” Jeremy says, voice wavering a bit. “What’s wrong?”_

_James just watches him, and he has to look away. He usually likes taking situations by the horns, rushing into things, but this, he feels, cannot be rushed into. He waits, eyes on the film, as James leans closer and closer, hair brushing his cheek._

_“I want you, Jeremy,” James whispers, voice hoarse, and it’s like a jolt of electricity runs down Jeremy’s spine. He feels it all the way to his toes._

_He turns slowly to James, who is watching him with that same expression as before: dark, hungry,_ dangerous _. He licks his lips, watching the way James’ adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, feeling that same itchy feeling he’d felt before._

_“James,” he says, helplessly, but it’s swallowed up by James’ mouth as he kisses him, and automatically his arms come around to grasp at the back of James’ jumper weakly, and oh, god, James is so hot that he feels them both begin to burn up._

***

Jeremy opens his eyes slowly, feeling the weight of the dream settle onto his chest. He runs a hand over his eyes and groans, glancing at the alarm clock, knowing he won’t be able to get back to sleep now. His insomnia always rears its ugly head at the worst moments. Still, no point lounging around in bed, so he gets up and shuffles to the kitchen to put the kettle on, staring out the window at the street below as it boils in the background.

He doesn’t know what this means, why his brain is doing this. Yes, alright, he hasn’t had sex in a while, but it’s still a total betrayal of his subconscious to turn to _James_ for inspiration. It’s not like he hasn’t wondered what it’d be like—what man hasn’t? Surely it’s normal?—especially when James laughs his donkey bray laugh so that his eyes scrunch up, or pushes his hair back from his face and tucks it behind his ear. But he’s not gay. Just desperate.

Perhaps it’s not normal, to wonder, though, he thinks as he pours himself a cup of tea. Perhaps truly straight men never go through life wondering what it’d be like to have another man wank you off, wondering what the feel of stubble on your face would feel like. He hasn’t thought of it for years—not really. Yes, there’d been a few times he’d gotten hard thinking about Richard bending over in his tight jeans, or the way James would look after sex, flushed and sweaty. But that was years ago, when they’d first started the show, and he’d tamped that down. He’d been married, then, and had drowned the images in the feel of Francie, who was so contrasting to the sharp lines and hard angles of James and Richard.

But that was years and years ago. Any odd fascination he’d had was long gone; now he looks at Richard and thinks what an irritating little man he can be, and looks at James and thinks about how he names his spanners and spends hours rebuilding motorcycle engines and how when he laughs his eyes crinkle up and how even when he’s irritated with Jeremy, Jeremy can see him smiling—

He sets the mug down heavily on the counter and breathes in slowly. Okay. So maybe this fascination isn’t long gone. Maybe it’s still alive and well.

Maybe he might be a little bit in love with James.

***

“Hey, Jeremy, are you alright?” Richard asks, eyes wide and worried.

Jeremy frowns over his coffee. It’s Wednesday morning, and they’re in the portakabin, having their morning teas and coffees before filming starts, like usual. James had stepped outside, muttering something about needing a cigarette. Since his lonely epiphany in his kitchen at two in the morning the other week, Jeremy has been unable to even look at James, snakes coiling in his belly whenever James speaks to him.

“Fine. Why?” he replies shortly, not wanting to snap at Richard, but finding it hard to hide the irritation in his voice.

Richard frowns. “Because you and James can’t even fucking look at each other, and Andy is starting to notice. What the hell happened? Did you two have a row?”

Jeremy slumps his shoulders. “Look… I’m sorry.” He runs his hand over his face, fully aware he probably looks as he feels—like shit. “I’ll fix it.”

“Right,” Richard says, skeptically, studying Jeremy for a moment more before turning away.

He feels so damn alone, here in the crappy little portakabin with the threadbare sofa, dysfunctional coffee machine and temperamental kettle. He’s dying to reach out to Richard, to admit that _yes_ there is something wrong, this stupid dream thing has shocked him to his core and just maybe he might like James quite a lot. But he’s never been one to broadcast his emotions, and he’s not about to start now, so he takes another swallow of his coffee and says nothing.

***

_He’s standing in his kitchen peering into the fridge. It’s a pretty miserable sight: all he has is a few beers and, oddly, a cauliflower drifting around in one of the drawers. He’s just about to shut the door and straighten up when someone’s hands wrap around his waist, arms dressed in a pink-and-purple stripey jumper, and a wave of joy so forceful hits him he has to remind himself to breathe._

_“Why don’t we order takeaway? Your fridge looks barren,” James whispers, pressing kisses up the back of his neck._

_“Mmm,” Jeremy sighs, turning around and wrapping his arms around James’ torso, pulling them flush. “I like that idea.”_

_James kisses him, then, and he closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, loving the way James feels so familiar and recognisable. James licks the bottom of his lip and he automatically opens his mouth so their their tongues touch, and he groans, revelling in the feeling of just this, of James, and he feels completely content._

***

The alarm clock’s red numbers blink at Jeremy accusingly. _Go to sleep_ , they urge him as they click over to 04:24. _Come on_.

Instead, he heads into the living room and boots up his computer, rubbing sleep from his eyes. If he does go back to sleep, he might dream again, and two dreams in one night would be too much, considering he woke aching and hard from this one, gasping at the feel of a phantom James’ kiss.

 _What are you doing, Jeremy?_ he asks himself as he clicks onto eBay and signs up for a new account, desperately trying to think of a username, going through about six different ones (‘IHateJamesMay’ is, interestingly, taken, and he decides against ‘HammondIsAShortArse’) before finally coming up with VeyronF1XJ220, a ridiculous username and one he’ll probably forget later, He takes a deep breath, fingers hovering over the search bar, wondering if whatever he types will make its way to the papers somehow.

“Fuck it,” he says out loud to his empty flat. “Fuck it all.”

He types ‘gay’ into the keyboard and blanches at the suggestions: gay interest, gay dvd, gay fetish, gay magazine, gay porn. Hitting the backspace key, he tries again. ‘Vintage porn magazines’ brings up several interesting results, and he soon finds himself scrolling through the listings—mainly all vintage penthouse and playboy magazines. He even stumbles across a ‘Beautiful Britons’ issue from 1957, something James would probably appreciate.

He sighs and pecks at the keyboard again, heading back to the ‘gay’ search and, bravely, clicking on the ‘gay porn’ suggestion.

***

After completing his purchase, he heads back to bed to groan into his pillow, the gordian knot inside his head refusing to unravel itself. His mind keeps drifting back to the dream, the intense joy he had felt at James’ kiss—and the way James’ had felt, pressed up against him like that, the way his lips had felt, so hot that it had made Jeremy feel like he was properly alive again, and soon he’s hard, his hand curling around his erection almost guiltily.

He banishes all thoughts of James from his head, and instead pictures a woman: soft, curvy, with breasts and contours and long hair, soft, petite lips and eyes as dark as sin. He starts to stroke faster and soon he’s close to coming, back arching, lips parted—and then.

James shoves his way into his thoughts, James with his angles and stubble and distinct lack of breasts. James, breath hot on Jeremy’s stomach as he noses his way down to Jeremy’s cock, licking his way up its length, blue eyes twinkling, hair falling into his face—no, _no_ —yes, _yes_.

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, willing his heart to slow down, waiting for the guilt to set in—guilt at shamelessly wanking over James.

There is none, though, only a warm, happy feeling that spreads through his whole body, and he just lies there for a while, trying to decipher this.

***

“Last day of the series, boys,” Jeremy booms as he walks into the portakabin. “Let’s make it a good one.”

Richard raises his mug in acknowledgement, not bothering to look up from the paper he’s poring over. Jeremy raises an eyebrow and turns to the coffee machine—and finds a mug of hot, steaming coffee sitting there, James leaning against the counter, cup of tea in hand, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Panic sets in, immediately. _He knows, he knows, he knows,_ he thinks, before realising he’s being completely stupid. James can’t know. He can’t. So he takes the coffee and smiles back at James, trying desperately to ignore the apparitions of the dreams he’s had flashing across his vision.

“The Spain film came out quite well,” James says, sipping his tea and regarding Jeremy over the top of his mug.

Abstractly, he realises Richard has put the paper down and is listening in to their conversation—the most words they’ve spoken, outside of the show, for weeks now. “It did. Although the way it was edited made you seem even _more_ pedantic than usual.”

James flushes. “I wish they would have cut some of the measuring out. I’m not that bad.”

“Yes, you are,” Jeremy and Richard reply in unison, grinning at each other.

James just shakes his head, but Jeremy can see something like relief in his eyes.

***

_“James?” Jeremy calls, shutting the door to James’ house behind him. “Where’re you?”_

_“I’m in the back,” James replies._

_Jeremy smiles, heading to the kitchen and shoving the beer in the fridge, humming to himself. Unlike his fridge, James’ is well stocked, including that awful beer that he insists on drinking and, interestingly, a bottle of champagne._

_“What’re we celebrating?” Jeremy yells, holding the bottle in one hand, navigating his way through James’ living room to find him in the study, a disassembled engine on the desk in front of him._

_James looks up and smiles, and Jeremy can’t help but smile back: the way James’ whole face lights up at the sight of him is something Jeremy will never, ever get sick of. “You noticed that, did you?” James asks, wiping his hands on a rag and stepping around the desk to pull Jeremy close._

_“It was right in my bloody face, how could I not?” Jeremy complains, but he sighs. “You have oil on your nose.”_

_James headbutts him, gently, smearing the oil all over Jeremy. He leaps back with a noise of disgust, but he’s laughing: it’s not the first time he’s gotten covered in second-hand oil from James’ numerous projects._

_“Come on, you plonker. What are we celebrating?” Jeremy laughs, shoving James playfully._

_James shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just our love.”_

_Jeremy flushes at that, embarrassed. After all this time, it still makes him feel awkward to put a label on this, even though he knows, in his heart, it_ is _love. But James is looking at him evenly, deciphering every thought, so he smiles._

_“You’re such a bleeding heart,” he sighs, resting his forehead on James’. “But you’re my bleeding heart.”_

_“Pillock,” James laughs, pushing Jeremy away. “Now go away, I need to finish working on this bloody engine.”_

_Jeremy comes back for more, fully aware that he’s a sucker for James. “I have a better idea.” He murmurs, nuzzling James’ neck. “You and me, on the table… shagging…”_

_“Lecherous old man,” James grumbles, but he turns his head to meet Jeremy in the kiss, the champagne bottle warming on the desk next to the disassembled engine, forgotten._

***

“Fucking hell!” Jeremy cries the next morning, kicking his sofa before sagging into it, covering his face with his hands.

He can’t stand this anymore. He can’t stand the dreams, he can’t stand dancing around James, too scared to touch him; he just can’t stand it all anymore. They’ve been mates for so long, they can’t throw it away over this, which is what he’s doing—he’s cocking it up, for all of them. Andy had noticed the tension about five episodes ago, and had had some stern words to him that went along the lines of ‘Don’t fuck this up, or I’ll fuck you up’. Jeremy had been doing his best, but honestly, it was so hard—whenever he went near James, he could feel something crackling in the air between them. James had noticed, too, and something was off between them.

He honestly feels like he’s losing his mind. From the moment he wakes up (dreams fresh on his mind) to when he goes to sleep (fear of dreaming on his mind) his thoughts are consumed by nothing but James, James, James.

Reaching for the scotch, he pours himself a liberal glass and throws it back in one go. Maybe, just maybe, if he drinks enough until his head is fuzzy and his liver is begging him for relief, he’ll be able to forget.

***

Several times in the taxi over to James’, Jeremy nearly reconsiders—but thanks to the scotch swimming through his veins, making the interior of the taxi turn fuzzy and start swaying in front of his eyes, he doesn’t. In fact, as he gets closer and closer to Hammersmith, he starts to think that this was a good idea after all.

He’ll just go in there, kiss James, and leave, because he needs to deal with this silly nonsense that’s been going on. James will tell him to sod off, and he will go, and then things will get better and he’ll stop having stupid dreams and stop wanking off to James and Andy won’t be cross and everything will be better.

There’s a niggling part of him that warns him against doing this—maybe he really _will_ balls this up permanently, for all of them. But he’s never really listened to that little niggling voice, and that’s why he is where he is now.

He laughs to himself, making the driver eye him in the rearview mirror. How hard can it be?

***

He hears piano music through James’ front door, which stops abruptly when he hammers on it. Or tries to, at least, but he really sort of just flops against it, making the whole thing rattle on his hinges. Hey—hammering on a door in Hammersmith. Maybe there’s a column in there, somewhere, about hammering away in Hammersmith, maybe he’ll involve Hammond in there, too—

“Jeremy?” The door opens to a bewildered James, who manages to catch him as he sort of falls inward. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to do something,” Jeremy mumbles, stumbling inside, realising James has shut the front door behind them.

James comes around to stand in front of him, arms folded, being careful not to touch Jeremy. “What are you _doing_ here?” he asks again, eyes narrowed.

This James is so different to the James of his dreams—who is so open and so loving—that Jeremy can’t stand it, and it hurts to watch. What has he done, what did he do, to make James shut himself off from the world?

He can’t really articulate that right now, so he sidesteps James and sits down heavily at the piano, the movement making his head spin slightly. He plonks his hand down on the keys, smiling at the tortured noise it makes.

“For fucks sake, Jeremy!” James erupts. “You can’t avoid me for three fucking months, flirting with me sometimes and then giving me the cold shoulder other times and then just turn up round my place plastered and expect things to work out! What do you _want?_ ” he finishes, nostrils flared and mouth twisted into a frown.

Jeremy just stares. He’s aware his mouth is hanging open and his hand is still on the piano keys, the echo of the notes he played hanging in the air. He’s never heard James swear quite like that before, and the niggling little voice is saying _I told you so._

“I came to do this,” he mutters, standing up in one fluid motion and pulling James to him, meeting him in the middle in a crushing kiss.

He expected to get yelled at and shoved. He expected to get hit, although James is not a violent man. He expected to get fired from his own show, even. What he didn’t expect, though, was James responding immediately, pressing close to him and kissing him back, hands slipping under Jeremy’s shirt and skittering up his back. They kiss, hungrily and almost angrily, Jeremy walking James backward to the wall, where James arches up against him.

He pulls back, reluctantly, and they regard each other for a moment: James, hair messy and chest heaving, eyes wild and him—well, he probably looks like what he is, which is a drunk, fat old man clinging to youth the only way he can.

“James, I—” he begins, but stops. He doesn’t even know how to begin, how to explain what’s happened, what he’s done. “I’m not—”

James turns away at that, folding his arms around himself, bending at the waist like Jeremy has just punched him in the stomach. “Right,” he says, quietly. “You’re not—you’re not gay. I understand. Just go, Jeremy.”

The alcohol makes it hard for him to understand what James is on about, but when he does, he rears back in horror. “James—that’s not what I meant. Swear. I mean, I’m not gay,” he starts, before closing his eyes and sending a prayer to every god in existence that he won’t cock this up further. “I don’t think I am. But I am—I’m infatuated with you, James.”

James looks up, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes. “No you’re not. You’re drunk.”

“I’ve been dreaming about you for three fucking months,” Jeremy blurts, watching James’ eyes go wide. “Every week, like clockwork.”

“What happened? In the dreams, that is,” James asks, unfolding slowly, hands coming away from his middle.

Jeremy steps closer, knows that he has to play this carefully or else he risks losing James forever. “It was you and me, and we were so happy. So bloody happy, James. We were like an old married couple, pottering around each other’s places.”

James doesn’t say anything, just regards him, calculations in his head going on that Jeremy is not privy to. The calculations, however, must come out his favour, because James steps into his arms and sighs, relaxing.

“You’ve been a complete and utter cock, you know that, don’t you?” he mutters against Jeremy’s chest.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Jeremy whispers, touching James’ cheek gently, feeling James’ hand come up to rest on the back of his neck. “I promise. I’m sorry.”

James shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and when they kiss Jeremy feels the world open up before him, full of possibilities he never knew existed until now.

 

 

_epilogue_

“Jeremy?” James calls, and Jeremy instantly knows something is wrong, just from his tone of voice, so he hauls himself up from the sofa, abandoning his book, and hurries into the hall.

“What’s wrong?” he says, rounding the corner. “Are you—oh.”

James has opened the parcel that just got delivered and is staring at its contents, mild horror on his face. “Jeremy. What is this?”

He blanches. “Opening my mail is a crime, you know. I could have you thrown in jail,” he says, faintly.

James’ eyebrows shoot up so far they disappear underneath his hair. “Jeremy Clarkson! Don’t bloody evade. Why has a box full of 70s gay porn magazines been delivered to your door?”

“Ah. That.” Jeremy scratches his head, trying to find a way out of the situation. “Wrong address? Maybe it should have gone to Hammond instead?”

James throws the magazine at the top of the stack at him, but there’s no malice behind it, and Jeremy ducks. “Alright, alright. When… when I had those dreams about you, I went on eBay one night and bought these.”

“What on earth for?” James asks, flipping through one of them, watching Jeremy closely.

“Because I didn’t know if—I didn’t know if I was gay. Or could be,” he finishes weakly.

James laughs at that, his donkey bray cackle filling the room, and Jeremy just stands there awkwardly, waiting for him to finish. “Sorry, Jezza. But if the Daily Mail ever heard about this…”

“Yes, yes, alright, not one of my brightest moments,” he grumbles, scooping the magazine James threw at him off the floor, trying to avoid looking at it.

“And are you?” James asks, coming up behind him and nuzzling his back.

Jeremy jumps and whirls around, blinking down at James. “Am I what?”

“Gay.”

He cocks his head and considers, looking at the magazine in his hand, at the well-toned, sideburns-wearing, attractive young man on the cover, before flinging it away and looking back at James, hands settling on James’ waist like they were made to be there. “No,” he says, before reconsidering. “Well, only for you.”

James smiles, and it’s the best thing Jeremy has ever seen.


End file.
